Expired Bounty
by sleepersamizdat
Summary: This one-shot offers a small view what Merle and Daryl might have been like when they were kids growing up in the deep South during the late 70's/early 80's.


Well, hell. There ain't noth'n half worth read'n in the Sun today. I thought for sure there would be something other than more on Burt Reynolds. Ain't they got noth'n better to report on? I tap out the two inch long ash on my Virginia Slim. I need to get me some new orthopedic hose. My legs still be kill'n me even after Doctor Westhauer done give me them cortisone shots. I don't give a shit what Eunice says, I think he's pull'n one over on me. I don't think them shots is work'n. Hell, at 68, ain't much use try'n to stay ahead of it anymore. We all gonna go some time. Lord gonna call you home whenever he sees fit. So, I might as well enjoy my cigarettes and eat whatever the hell I want. I rustle around in my box of Chicken In A Biskits and look for my half empty bottle of Yoo-hoo. 'Sides, I got other things to worry about. Like, what I'm gonna make for homecoming dinner. I seen one o' them fancy ass little sandwich maker things on the television the other night. You cut little sandwiches outta shapes like hearts and diamonds and stuff, then you put olives on a toothpick to hold'm together. I might do that. Anyone can make an ol' jello mold any day. Geraldine brought one last year with carrots and raisins and marshmallows. 'Bout to gag a maggot the way it looked but she was all proud about it.

I take another drag off my cigarette. It's hot as the devil today and I got the box fan runn'n full blast but it's make'n it hard to hear my radio soaps. It's been slow today but it's a Wednesday at my little general store and it ain't noth'n too terribly surprising. People gotta save up before they get paid to then come in and stock up for the weekend. We got cold beer, lottery tickets, chips and snack, candy, sundries of all sorts. I sells just about a little of everything. I even got a kid fetch'n me nightcrawlers to sell folks want'n to go fish'n on the weekends. Sometimes we can sell fresh fish and crawdads but that's only if the season is good. That reminds me. I gotta ask that boy for some buckets o' dandelion flower. Gonna make me some wine comin' soon.

Oh, here _he_ comes. Dixon in his shitty pickup. That boy always a pain in my ass, causing trouble. I wish he'd go on and bother someone else's business. He ain't nothing I ain't handled before but when he's three sheets to the wind he can get mean. He had a go around with some of his buddies in here once and knocked over a bunch of merchandise. Thought I was going to have to unload a round of buckshot in 'em boys but they got the message right quick and haven't had much trouble from'm since. I guess I could've called the law if I wanted the situation to be handled in a quick 45 minutes but Remmington usually clears the air in about 10 seconds.

Hold up. This was new. Two dirty little boys hopping out the bed of the truck and wandered into the store while their daddy pumps gas. I didn't know he had any kids, much less two. Lemme correct that: I didn't know he _claimed_ any kids. I wouldn't trust Dixon to watch a dead cat much less a child. The oldest boy looked about eight or nine. It was clear to see who he favored. He looked just like his daddy with a blonde crew cut and piercing blue eyes. He even carried the same scowl as his daddy. I had to smile to myself. His little blonde eyebrows were so transparent that he looked like a little boxer dog with that scowl and downturned mouth. Bless his little heart. His little brother must have taken more after their mother or he was just too little to have taken on the "Dixon" look. He had blue eyes too but a shock of light brown hair that was in need of cutting. His round little face had a sweet countenance, gawking around with wide eyes. He stuck close to his brother as they made their way back to the candy section. He must have been a little scared because he grabbed his brother by the hand. You know, for as mean as the little weasel looked, he held on to his brother's hand while telling him about the different candy. "Look, Daryl. They got Big League Chew, an' Cow Tails, an' Sugar Daddies." The little boy grabbed something off the shelf but his brother took him by the wrist and pried it out of his hand. "Naw, we can't have none uh that yet. 'Sides that's licorice. That shit's nasty." His brother nodded and grasped his hand again.

The door burst open and in rolled Dixon. His boots struck the floorboards irately as he stomped past the boys. He walked like a gorilla with his ass up on his back and a chip on his shoulder. "Stop hold'n hands like a couple'uh faggots." he spat as he passed the boys. "I mean it." he grumbled as he scanned the chew display, "Yer maw's rais'n a couple'uh pussies." He found his brand and snatched the Skoal off the shelf. Tin in hand, he looked down at them. "An' don't touch that shit. We ain't got no money for candy or any of that shit." He tossed the tin on the counter and I rung him up but he came up a few cents short. Putting on his most charming grin, he held up a finger. "One minute ma'am." I watched him go out front to reach into the change slots of the drink machines and gum ball machines. Making his way over to the pay phone, he rooted around for a bit before triumphantly coming back with a dime. He had seven cents change that he stuffed into his pocket as he looked over at the boys in the penny candy aisle. "Y'all don't cause any trouble. I'll be back in a minute." Snapping the snuff vigorously in the can, he shoved his way out the front door.

The boys looked over to me. I tapped the ashes out in my ash tray and leisurely flipped the newspaper page. "Y'all alright. You ain't bothering me." Little boxer-face said, "Yes, ma'am." and they went back to inspecting the candy. Daryl would point to something and his brother would explain if it were any good or not. The little one stuck like glue to his brother and at some point he popped his thumb into his mouth. "Naw, don't do that." said his brother. He forcefully pulled his brother's hand out of his mouth and clutched it down by his side. "Don't know why he's be'n a dick. Maw, said I gotta watch out for ya."

There was a crackling rumble that drew my attention to the parking lot and sure enough outside three bikers had pulled up and were talking over the bed of Dixon's truck. I couldn't see what was in the bed and I didn't want to know. As long as they kept that shit outside and no one got shot, I'm better off not knowing. I turned back to the boys. They had made their way to the back where the tobacco products were. The oldest had spotted my big wooden Indian statue. That old thing had been there since 1932 and had provided me with endless entertainment as it seemed to scare the crap out of the local children. I wasn't sure it was gonna work on this one and I was sure that he was going to pocket some cigarettes when he thought I wasn't looking, but I heard him relaying some sort of tale to Daryl. Maybe it was some urban legend that the kids had made up about my old wooden tobacco guardian. I hope they spread around rumors about little cigarette thieves getting scalped. All of the sudden, the little one gets this panicked look on his face and lets out a whimper.

"What?" says his brother.

"I . . ." the little one starts and grabs his pants, doing a jig. "I gotta go."

"MA'AM!" little boxer-face hollers.

"It's alright. He can go on ahead." I point my cigarette in the direction of the "employees only" sign on the door to the bathroom.

Poor little Daryl made a run for it like his life depended on it. "You holler if you need me." his brother said.

Little boxer face scrubs at his crew cut and begins to wander around the store again. He must have gotten lonely because he eventually makes his way to my counter. He's lingering where I've got my ash tray and paper spread out. He makes a face at the large jar of pale pickled pigs feet. "How do people even eat them thangs." he says.

"Beats me, son." I tap my ash in the direction of the deep neon pink jar of pickled eggs. "I don't know how they eat them things either."

He perks up, "Oh, I like those." I let out a chuckle and the tobacco brume diffuses around us. I look down at him through the rims of my bifocals. "How come yer daddy ain't never brought you round here before?" Little boxer face is staring a hole into the glass of the pickled eggs and he taps on it as he shuffles his feet and shrugs. "He watch'n you while yer mama's at work?" He's picking at a chink in the glass now and doesn't answer me. Oh, well. I cast my eyes down at the newspaper as I take another drag on the cigarette. I was just about to start read'n my paper again when little boxer face says,

"Maw's in the tank dry'n out. Ain't had nowhere to stay while daddy does business so we ride'n along today."

 _Well, Jesus Lord God._ I look up and let the smoke roll out with my sigh. "Well, you're doing a good job look'n after yer brother. You're doin' good to look after things." Well, what the hell was I supposed to say? He looked over and caught my eyes for a second before looking back to the chink of glass he was picking at and nodding.

Dixon is worthless but I didn't know he had a family. From the sounds of it, Mama ain't no better. I think I remember hearing somewhere that Dixon holed up in Stumptown. Ain't nothing ever come oughta Stumptown weren't a drunk or a drug addict. I glance out the front door to see a wad of money passing hands and the bikers lifting boxes onto the backs of their bikes. One of the bikers is drinking out of a mason jar with Dixon and they seem in high spirits. Great.

"MERLE!" I hear hollered from the bathroom. Little boxer face jumps and he's off to go help his brother.

Merle and Daryl. I chuckle to myself. Bless their hearts. Sired by a Dixon and living in Stumptown, GA with a drunk mama too. Poor things. I'm willing to bet that those were the only names either of them were able to slur when it came time to fill out the birth certificates. But, they were sweet little boys. They couldn't help being poor and dirty and that their daddy was a shiftless bastard. They were actually better behaved than their daddy. Hell, Merle had even taught his brother about not stealing moments after they came through my door. Shit, you can't teach that to half the grown-ass "men" around here. I looked out to the "business" going down in the parking lot as I stubbed out the remains of my cigarette. Reaching down, I pulled an old cardboard beer flat out from under the counter. Shit, it's my store. I'll do what I damn well want.

When Merle and Daryl finally leave the bathroom, Merle is fussing at Daryl. "Wait! You ain't even dried yer hands off yet. Here, use ma shirt." and he offered the end of his grubby t-shirt. I'm behind the counter checking out a mound of candy in the beer flat piece by piece. "Whoa!" says Merle, "Who bought all that?" By this time, I've got a fresh cigarette dangling off my lip. "I'm doing inventory and I gotta get rid of all the expired candy."

"Get rid of it?" Daryl pipes up. Lord, I can't hold a straight face if these two get any cuter.

"Mmmmhmmm." I pause for dramatic effect. "What? Y'all want it? Otherwise, it's just gonna get thrown out."

"Yes ma'am!" Merle says and I pass the box down off the counter. They place it on the floor so Daryl can get a good look and they start going through it on the grubby floor because that's what kids do. I don't know who is enjoying this more, me or them. All I know is I'd rather be watching this than readying my shot gun to break up whatever shenanigans Dixon might stir up with his buddies in the parking lot. Merle is turning over a wrapper as they're both stuffing candy in their mouths when he says, "Hey, this one ain't expired yet."

I twirl my cigarette and give him the side eye. "Oops."

He looks up at me with a genuine expression and says, "Does candy even go bad?" and Daryl looks up at me like this is the answer to the cure for cancer. I have to chuckle, "Hell, baby. I don't know."

"Well, this stuff is still good." and he's smiling at his brother and little Daryl is smiling back.

The front door bangs open and an irritated voice says, "Whutchall doin?" Dixon has come back to retrieve his boys and the sight of them on the floor with a bounty of candy, rack'n up a bill did not sit well. I spoke up in a stern tone that gramma's are known for. "They doin me a favor. I had to rotate the stock today and get rid of the expired stuff and rather than attract roaches and possums out back, I said they could have it. So, they's _doin_ me a favor."

Dixon looked at me, and then to them, and then to me again. I could tell he was warring with going along with the free meal for his kids or raising hell on account of some old black lady winning a power struggle. The moonshine must have greased the path to a free meal for his kids because he tossed his head squared his shoulders and said, "Well, y'all done come at the right time now didn'tcha? Must be that Dixon luck. Come'on. Git all that up and git in the truck. We gotta go." He turned and let the door slam behind him.

The two boys picked the cardboard flat up together. Merle looked up at me and said, "Thank you, ma'am." and then whispered a prompt to Daryl who then peeped out the cutest, "Thank you." I've ever heard. I couldn't help but lay the maw-maw on thick when I said, "You welcome, sweetpeas." I held the door for them as they carried it out together and climbed into their daddy's rust bucket. They left, churning up dust and blue white exhaust. "Dixon luck." I said, folding my arms behind the screen door as I watched them go. "What a dumbass."


End file.
